


Painkiller

by ashinae



Category: Firefly
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinae/pseuds/ashinae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The exciting adventures in sitting really aren't so bad compared to the thrilling hi-jinks of being pounded into a bloody pulp.</p><p><span class="small">Originally posted to LiveJournal 3 December, 2004.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Painkiller

There is something almost amusing about the big pair of boots in Simon's line of sight. He's not entirely certain what it is that causes the short, harsh laugh to bubble up; perhaps it's the way the bartender has not stopped cleaning glasses like he's been doing since before the first punch was thrown. Or perhaps it's this getting beat up over things he's not really been 'allowed' to take a part in, or simply just being left to warm barstools--why beat up the innocent bystander?

On the other hand, he has had rather much to drink. So maybe the sheer hilarity of it all comes from the oh-so-fun way the room keeps tilting on its axis. Or is that the planet?

He thinks that the exciting adventures in sitting really aren't so bad compared to the thrilling hi-jinks of being pounded into a bloody pulp. In fact, the split lip, bruised ribs, bleeding cut on his forehead, and the bump he's certain he is going to have on the back of his head--he would gladly trade it all right this instant for being back on board _Serenity_.

In all, it really is sort of laughter-inducing, in a not-terribly-funny sort of way.

But the strange, dark humour gives way to confusion when he isn't dragged up from the floor by whoever's attached to the pair of boots in front of his face. When he hears a gun being cocked, the confusion gives way to downright concern. But then it seems that his attackers are finally backing away, and Simon's right back at simple confusion again.

Then a very familiar, gruff voice is telling him to get to his gorram feet, and a hand grabs him by the back of his shirt to yank him up. Now Simon feels something rather akin to relief as his own hand reaches out to grab hold of Jayne's arm to keep himself steady, but he wavers on his feet so Jayne's arm somehow finds its way around Simon's waist even as he keeps his gun trained on Simon's attackers.

(Only three? Surely there were dozens of them not two minutes ago.)

Jayne's language is really remarkably colourful, and leaning against him is a fair sight more comfortable than the ground was, and he's being quite dashing maybe in this whole swoop in and rescue poor Simon thing. But this was certainly not planned, and the whole bar won't stay still, and Simon will be damned if he'll get all swoony and _oh-my-hero_ -like.

If he does swoon, it is neither his fault nor is it because of Jayne. In fact, this isn't swooning at all--it's struggling like hell not to throw up all over himself and his gun-toting, obscenity-snarling rescuer because, wow, that would be really undignified. Also, who in his right mind would ever make any effort to save the ass of someone who'd repay the favour with vomit?

Simon eventually decides, once he's lying safely in one of the beds upstairs, that the nausea isn't from any of his injuries, but from the horribly undercooked meal he'd been in the middle of eating when his assailants set upon him. Or maybe it's from the heat--he can't really be sure because his ears are ringing. And he's sick, quite sick, from the food, and maybe he's had a little too much to drink. And Jayne, sitting at the side of the bed trying to clean various scrapes and bleeding spots, is rolling his eyes so maybe Simon had best just shut the hell up.

Having a few minutes to let the tension melt away and for the adrenaline to stop pumping through his veins, Simon slowly realises that he's not in nearly as much pain as he'd thought--which is probably a good thing considering that, for some inexplicable reason, Jayne is the one tending to him. He's sure he should be concerned--why did Jayne return? has something gone wrong? where's everyone else? But suddenly he's being pulled up to sit, and his shirt is being tugged over his head.

He manages a protest, but Jayne tells him to shut up and shoves him back. Then he stops, and stares down at Simon for a long moment, one big hand resting surprisingly gently over Simon's ribs--the side that's not sore. They stare at each other for a long moment, then Jayne mutters something that's near-incomprehensible and he leans down to drag his tongue across a fresh forming bruise on Simon's shoulder.

All Simon can do is gasp. His fingers twitch convulsively over the blankets beneath him, but otherwise he doesn't move at all.

Since he doesn't push him away, Jayne seems to take this as a sign of assent. He licks across Simon's shoulder again, lifts his head, and licks the other shoulder. This makes Simon squirm, which is apparently just as good as encouragement, because then Jayne's tongue slides up Simon's neck in a broad, wet swipe.

Well, he's certainly not trying to _stop_ Jayne, is he? Surely that's just as good as saying, _yes, please, more._ Besides that, Simon isn't exactly certain he even wants Jayne to stop.

An interesting development to the day. It has Simon more than a little surprised and bewildered. Because… Jayne is licking him. Licking. Jayne's tongue is on his skin--on his neck. Dangerously close to his mouth. And Simon just isn't stopping him. He's not entirely certain which part of this situation is the most ludicrous.

The whole thing, most likely. Probably right down to the very second he woke up. Or maybe he never woke up at all?

No--he knows perfectly well that's just a silly thing to think.

Because never, not in a million years, could Simon dream what the rough scrape of beard across his cheek could feel like. He couldn't possibly imagine the gruff voice whispering in his ear--more curses, anger, and promises, oh, promises, as a calloused hand moves up and down his side. And there is simply no way he could have guessed what it would feel like to have Jayne's mouth on his: hard, demanding, taking, claiming.

He's drowning in it. In over his head and no way out and he's not entirely certain he wants it to stop.

He’s not entirely certain he could stop it if he wanted to. He's too stunned to move or kiss Jayne back or even squeak.

Yet Jayne seems to take the utter lack of response for consent--

 _\--oh, thank God--_

\--because for a painfully sweet, short moment, the bruising kiss turns soft. Nothing could have ever prepared Simon for that, or for finally letting out a tiny sound, deep in his throat, and kissing Jayne back.

Jayne pulls away, and Simon whimpers, faintly--faint enough that he can hope Jayne doesn't notice because he's speaking. Telling Simon he's an idiot for getting himself beat up (the subtext here is 'again'), and that if he moves, Jayne will do even worse.

And later...

Later. He doesn't finish this sentence, but what remains unspoken hangs thick in the air between them is that this isn't finished. The hot look that Jayne is giving Simon is proof enough, the way he licks his lip and has one hand possessively on Simon's shoulder just finalises that.

There's work to be done, obviously. But _this_ isn't over. The utter madness of it all is that Simon isn't the least bit troubled.


End file.
